


Striking Matches

by castielblues, eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Art, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Emissary in Training Stiles Stilinski, Hurt Stiles, Inspired by Art, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Panic Attacks, Season/Series 02, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 13:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11149305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielblues/pseuds/castielblues, https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: Stiles has only ever wanted to protect his family and his pack.  That’s not easy to do when you're human and sarcasm is your only defense.  Now Deaton is telling Stiles he’s a spark, and if that’s a weapon in his arsenal, he’s sure as hell going to learn to use it.All Stiles needs now, to complete his transformation into a true badass, is a training montage and a decent soundtrack...





	1. Fic and Art

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to drgirlfriend and cobrilee for the beta/hand holding! Also all my thanks to dyjanobrien for the truly inspirational art and to the mods for putting this shindig together. I haven’t written in a million internet years, and this gave me the push I really needed!

Stiles paced back and forth, muttering to himself as he thought of fifteen different persuasive arguments in a handful of seconds and discarded them all. The asphalt, cracked in places, crunched with each rapid step, so loud every time he turned on his heel that he missed the tell-tale squeak of the service entrance opening.

"Mr. Stilinski?"

With a flail of limbs, Stiles stumbled sideways against the dumpster, banging his elbow on it with a loud clang of bone on metal and an undignified, decidedly pained screech. "Ow, fuck!"

Alan Deaton raised an eyebrow at him, but otherwise didn't respond.

Stiles' eyes flared wide, and he glanced between Deaton and the open door, his jaw hanging slack in wonder. "Did you _magically sense_ me out here?"

Deaton just stared at him blankly for a long moment before he flicked his gaze to the security camera that stood out prominently from the brick facade near the roof, panning slowly around the alleyway. 

"Oh. Right. Cameras. Gotcha." Stiles didn't even bother to be embarrassed by his blunder, just walked over to where Deaton was continuing to hold the door open and demanded, "Be my Yoda. Teach me everything."

Deaton's bland, judgmental stare was no more than Stiles expected. "Come in, Mr. Stilinski. I have a one-eyed calico which needs my attention and your caterwauling can't possibly be helpful to his peace of mind." Deaton shifted to the side, allowing Stiles to slip past him into the flickering fluorescents that lit the interior of the clinic. 

Still jittery with nerves — nerves that clashed with the huge swelling of _accomplishment_ that had been roaring through him for the past hour — Stiles pulled a wad of black plastic from his hoodie pocket and shook it out as he listened to the sound of his own footsteps slapping against the tile floor. "I did it," he said, his voice going tight around the edges of the words in lingering excitement.

The steps that had been echoing his own faltered, went off-stride. "You used the entire bag?"

Stiles stumbled to a halt and spun back around, an apology on the tip of his tongue because _holy shit, how much did mountain ash_ cost _anyway?_ But the look on Deaton's face made him pause, made him realize… "You didn't think it'd work." The swelling feeling that had been pushing against his ribcage — pride or something like it — popped like a balloon, leaving Stiles a little too weak to stand on his own feet. He staggered toward the wall and leaned heavily against it. "Holy shit. You didn't think it would _work_. You sent us out there with a giant bag of ash and a pat on the back to face off against a goddamn kanima and _you didn't think it would work._ What the _fuck_ , Deaton?!"

A hand on his arm made him startle, made him realize that his eyes had slid closed at some point, and he opened them to see an expression on Deaton's face that he was unfamiliar with. Not that he'd stared at the local vet enough to actually have his every expression catalogued, but Scott worked there after school, and Stiles had kind of never had a social life that didn't revolve around Scott, so…

"I hoped you would succeed, in the face of evidence that pointed to it being unlikely. You're untrained, freshly inducted into the world of the supernatural, and have never had to call upon your spark before. Not only that, but… _I_ , personally, have never had to lay an ash line as long as the one you laid tonight. I had no idea if the amount of ash I had here would be sufficient."

Stiles blinked, looked down at Deaton's hand on his arm feeling a bit like his brain was floating out of his skull as his entire being tried to disassociate from the horror of knowing that he hadn't been _meant_ to succeed in protecting his pack, his _town_ tonight. "It wasn't," he murmured. "I ran out but for a handful about fifty feet shy of closing the circle. But you told me all I had to do was believe, so I did. I … did. But you didn't."

"Fifty feet? With only a handful of ash? Mr. Stilinski, that is… extraordinary." There was something a little breathless in Deaton's tone, something that caused Stiles' hackles to rise momentarily.

"What were you going to do when I failed? When Jackson got out and killed _everyone_?"

Deaton gave his arm a tug and waited until Stiles pushed himself back upright before steering him into a room he'd never been in before. "This," Deaton said, and Stiles blinked around at what looked like some sort of mad scientist's laboratory. Well, a mad scientist's laboratory as long as the mad scientist liked to work in super clean, well-lit, mostly stainless steel environments. 

"I was working on something with the aid of a few colleagues when I saw you pacing outside on the camera. Thankfully, Roger here won't have to sacrifice himself for the protection of Beacon Hills," Deaton said, his voice even and casual as he went to a cage in the corner and opened it to lift out a one-eyed cat with what looked to be mange.

"What." 

Deaton turned back to Stiles, smoothing a hand over the cat's remaining fur until it settled against his chest. "I am a Druid, Mr. Stilinski. I've told you before that we maintain the balance. Sometimes that means I have to take a life to save another. It is why I became a veterinarian. There will always be animals that need to be euthanized. While I try to maintain a regular schedule of such appointments, this week has been a bit… lacking on that front. Roger here was going to be our town's hero, until you stepped into that role." Deaton smiled thinly at the cat before glancing up and apparently catching the expression of incredulous horror that Stiles knew he wasn't doing a very good job of hiding. "Don't look so appalled. You saved one more life than you know tonight. You did well."

Stiles let out a nervous chuckle and began slowly backing toward the door. "Yeah. Thanks, doc. I just, uh, wanted to let you know that it all worked and—"

"You came here to ask me to teach you, Mr. Stilinski. Don't let the reality of the world you find yourself in prevent you from doing so."

"How did you—?" Stiles' eyes flared wide and again, he was hit with that sense that Deaton could reach into his soul to pluck out information.

"You asked me to be your Yoda. I _have_ seen the Star Wars movies, you know."

Unable to stop himself, Stiles perked up. "Really? Scott hasn't."

"That's not surprising. Your specific generation exists in an in-between state for the Star Wars franchise. You are too young to have been hooked by the prequels, such as they were, so you need to rely on the passion of an older generation to have indoctrinated you into the series." Deaton's eyes met Stiles' as he finally set Roger down — the relief Stiles felt for the stupid cat released in a whoosh of breath — and began cleaning various _things_ off the workbench. "Your mother, I presume?"

"Yeah, Mom freaking _loved_ the original trilogy."

The room went quiet for a moment but for the sounds of Deaton's cleaning spree. "Tell me what happened tonight, Mr. Stilinski. What drove you here?"

Instantly, Stiles brought his hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at a ragged edge of his thumb nail. "Do you know what it's like to be human?" he finally asked, then rolled his eyes at Deaton's raised eyebrow. "I mean _really_ human, not mister magical Druid."

"I wasn't always a Druid." 

Stiles barely acknowledged that, just began to pace again as words tumbled from his mouth. "This whole time, I've been feeling like I was Robin, you know? But with this mountain ash thing? With this I could be… not Batman." Stiles flailed a little, whirling again to pace back the other direction as his thoughts skittered about. "Scott is definitely Batman in this scenario … or, well. Derek. Derek is Batman, _Scott_ is Robin, if anyone's Robin. But I could be _Alfred_. Doc!" He paused mid-step, nearly stumbling as that thought coalesced. "I could be Alfred!"

Deaton blinked at him slowly, his normally flat expression shifting to something a little more human. "The butler?"

"The... pfft! Oh my god, what?! Alfred Pennyworth is _so_ much more than a butler! He's absolutely _crucial_ to Batman's entire arc! I mean, without Robin, Batman is still Batman, you know? Not that Scott's unnecessary to the plot here. Scott is growing out of his Robin persona and evolving into Nightwing, if anything. I just mean... " Stiles blew out a breath and bent at the waist, bracing his hands on his knees as his excitement reached an all new high. "Without Alfred, Batman can't be free to be Batman. Robin can't be Robin. They _need_ Alfred, Deaton. All this time, I've felt useless and like some tagalong or an _extra_. But now? Now I can be _something._ I can _help_ them, even as just a squishy human." Craning his neck so that he could look back up at Deaton, Stiles slowly straightened again, his breathing as ragged as if he'd run five miles. "I want to help them. I want to be the Alfred to their superpowered heroes of the night schtick. How do I do that? I need to learn more, and you're the only one I know who can teach me." Then, as Roger wound around his ankles, Stiles added, "Just, maybe without the whole animal death thing. That'd be good."

"Have you spoken with your Alpha about this?" Deaton's right eye twitched a little before he added, " _Without_ the Batman references."

Stiles' mouth dropped open, and he stood like that for a moment, brain for once completely quiet, before he straightened. "What? Why?" Stiles narrowed his eyes, trying to read past the bland exterior that Deaton always presented before he gave up with a shrug. "I mean, I hadn't yet. I figured I should ask you first, since you're the one who'll be teaching me."

"Mentoring."

"What?"

"I would be considered your mentor, _if_ we were to go through with this. But…" His voice trailed off, and he stared at Stiles consideringly for a long, nerve-wracking moment. "I would be honored to assist you in your emissary education."

Stiles had one hand balled up in preparation for a victory fist-pump when he heard Deaton clear his throat pointedly. 

"Just as soon as you have the blessing of your Alpha."

—

Chasing down information on kanimas and trying to figure out who its master could be was a bit time consuming for even above-average high school students. Because of that, it was Thursday before Stiles was able to find time to hunt down Derek. As the Jeep's tires crunched over the gravel at the entrance to the old train depot, he muttered to himself about vagrant werewolves and their lurker tendencies before he parked, turned off the Jeep, and threw himself out. Running a nervous hand through his hair, he walked into the place, shouting out an, "Anyone home?"

When no answer came, he looked around and then stopped, pulling his phone out and turning on the flashlight app as he approached the train cars and peered into them. Granted, the place was an abandoned train depot, so it always had that air of desolation about it, but somehow it looked even _more_ abandoned now and... 

And it was completely empty, no sign of mattresses or chains, with dust coating the few flat surfaces.

"Dammit. That fuckhead went and moved again."

—

After exploring the downright creepy remains of the old, burned-out Hale house — and fruitlessly texting Scott a few hundred times to figure out where their erstwhile Alpha could be — Stiles mentally and physically shrugged his shoulders and went back to Deaton.

"You've spoken with your Alpha, then?" Deaton asked after they'd made it through the pleasantries portion of the conversation. Which had really just consisted of Stiles showing up and Deaton calling him _Mr. Stilinski._

"Absolutely," Stiles lied easily, rubbing his hands together and focusing on a stupidly cute poster of a cat that hung neatly on the wall. "He's all on board."

"Good. Then you should have no trouble casting another mountain ash line. Take a handful, imagine it surrounding you in an impenetrable circle as you throw it into the air above your head."

Stiles shrugged and reached into the jar that Deaton had grabbed while he was talking and shook a handful into the palm of his hand. Thinking about a protective circle, Stiles threw the handful of ash into the air and… started screeching as it all fell directly back down into his face, getting in his eyes, up his nose, and into his mouth. Pawing at his face, Stiles looked up at Deaton through watery eyes, betrayed right down to his soul.

Deaton tilted his head a fraction before he let out a breath through his nose that sounded vaguely disappointed. "You didn't speak to your Alpha. Mr. Stilinski, I don't have time for the sorts of games you play with the truth. Go talk to your Alpha. Get his blessing."

Stiles threw his head back with a loud groan. "Okay, first of all… I have no idea where our fearless leader is, okay? I've looked all over town for him. I could ask my Dad to put out an APB on him, but I'm pretty sure that'd just piss Derek off enough that he'd say no without even _considering_ what a badass emissary I'll eventually be. And also, I am pretty sure my Dad isn't even speaking to me right now, so it'd be kinda hard to ask him anything, what with him not having a _job_ anymore because of me and—"

And fuck.

Everything that Stiles had been pushing to the back of his mind came barrelling forward in that moment and his breathing went thin; no matter _how much_ oxygen he sucked in, it just wasn't enough. Spots began dancing in his vision. He knew he was close to passing out, couldn't focus on anything but the fact that he was _drowning_ without even the benefit of a pool of water, and felt himself sliding toward the floor when warm hands grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Stiles."

The voice was too far away, muffled like there was cotton shoved into his ears, nearly drowned out by the sound of his own panicked breaths and the rapid beating of his heart echoing in his ears.

"Stiles. Breathe, dammit. Come on. With me. In and out. One… two… three. Stiles."

Warmth along his back, strong hands holding him upright, and then a voice that cut through the cotton, pushed back the grey edging along his vision and vibrated right down to his bones. " _Stiles!_ "

The next breath tripped over the too-thick feeling of Stiles' tongue but… but it also seemed more substantial. Not so thin and light and insufficient. The breath after that was shaky, but also filled his lungs. And then he was breathing again, and the breaths were fast and deep and _right_.

"Did you…" Stiles started to ask, then coughed, his voice still weak and wavery. He dropped his head back, overextending his neck as he tried to make eye contact with something more than the ridiculously gelled spikes of Derek's hair. "Did you just _Alpha_ me out of a panic attack?" 

"Did it work?" Derek asked, his voice utterly dry, acting like a tough shit who didn't care at all even as he steered Stiles toward a spinny stool thing and eased him down onto it.

Stiles opened his mouth to deny everything, only to snap it closed again when he realized that yeah, okay, it kinda did work. Pointing an ineffectual finger at Derek, he narrowed his eyes. "That's beside the point. And anyway, where the fuck have you been? I looked everywhere for you!"

"Sorry, _dear_ ," Derek muttered, walking over to a water cooler in the corner of the room and filling one of those little cone-shaped paper cups before stomping back and thrusting it at Stiles. "Drink. Why were you looking for me?"

Ignoring the dribble that sloshed out of the paper cone as he squeezed it just a bit too hard and crushed the sides, Stiles used the excuse of drinking the teeth-achingly cold water to ignore Derek's question until he could think of a way to ask about becoming Derek's emissary.

"Mr. Stilinski would like to begin training to be your pack emissary, Derek," Deaton said, because he was a goddamn snitch.

A goddamn snitch that Stiles had completely forgotten about. 

"What."

Stiles sighed, crumpling the paper in his hand and tossing it toward the trashcan. It, of course, didn't even come close. "I want to be the pack's emissary, and Deaton said I had to ask you first—"

"Me? Why me?"

Lifting his eyebrows, Stiles glanced from Derek to Deaton, giving the vet a well-practiced _is this guy an idiot or what_ hand flail before turning back to Derek and saying, slowly and clearly, "Because. You're. The. Alpha."

Something like surprise softened Derek's expression and incredibly, he took a tiny step back. "You acknowledge me as Alpha?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

"I mean, yeah? Don't look so shocked, asshole. Who else is there? I know Scott has some delusions about the whole 'my pack is not your pack and that's okay' thing, but let's be real here. _I_ had to tell that knucklehead he was a werewolf." Stiles shook his head, lips quirking at the corner in fond remembrance. "Good times." Then he turned to Deaton and clapped his hands together. "So! Derek knows. We're all good here, right?"

But Deaton was looking at Derek, which made Stiles turn and look at him too. "Do you accept Mr. Stilinski as your pack emissary, Alpha Hale?"

Derek's glance bounced from Deaton to Stiles and back again before he growled out a sharp, too harsh, "No."

"Oh, come on, dude!" Stiles squawked, jumping up from the stool and sending it rolling backward to crash into a workbench behind him with a loud clatter. Advancing on Derek, Stiles poked him in the chest with a stiff finger and hissed, "You need me. You don't even know it, but you do! You saw what I did with the mountain ash at the club!" Stiles flailed his hands around his head. "I've finally found a way to be helpful, and you're cock-blocking me? Unbelievable!" Tongue twisting up in his mouth, Stiles realized he was losing this battle with every word that tumbled out of him. Turning a pleading gaze on his _mentor_ , he begged, "Tell him, Deaton! Tell him what I can do. How I can help the pack."

Derek scoffed. "You're human, Stiles."

"There are very important roles for humans in a pack, Derek," Deaton said, his patented calm such a contrast to Stiles' _everything_ that it was almost shocking. "I know you're as aware of that as I am. An emissary is but one of those roles; it is one that I believe Mr. Stilinski would have some aptitude for. He has already proven an ability to manipulate mountain ash, which is no mean feat for a novice."

Eyes glinting briefly red, Derek growled low and threateningly at Deaton. "Are you the one who put this idea in his head?" 

"Fuck you!" Stiles shoved at Derek, then shoved him again for good measure. "Seriously fuck you, okay? You think I'm some child, to be—"

Derek knocked his hands away with a low snarl. "You _are_ a child, Stiles! You're _sixteen_ years old and—"

"What? No, I'm not. I'm seventeen, but that's not the point! You went out and _bit_ four teenagers. Each of them, by the way, sixteen years old. Younger than _me_ , and neither their age nor the fact that they were human seemed to bother you then. You didn't mind dragging _them_ into this mess. What makes me so different?"

Derek's lips compressed, his gaze flicking around the room, occasionally landing on Stiles before skittering away again. Finally, he bit out a gruff, "You could get hurt. Not just hurt; you could get killed. I can't—"

"Don't you think I know that? I've lived through your psycho uncle and Kate Argent and I'm _currently_ helping the pack deal with a goddamn Jackson-turned-kanima. I know what the risks are. I'm actually trying to mitigate them here by learning how to protect myself. Not just myself. I'm trying to learn how to protect my _dad_ and the pack and _you_. Because trust me, I know how squishable I am, okay? But I'm pretty sure somewhere along the line _you_ forgot that you're _also_ capable of being killed."

Stiles waited for Derek to say something, but he just glared down at the tile floor, glorious eyebrows scrunched up and nostrils flaring. Glancing down, Stiles noted how Derek's hands were clenching and unclenching into fists. Reaching out, he placed the shaky fingers of one hand against the prominent knuckles of Derek's hand until it opened, relaxing by his side. 

The clinic was too quiet then. Not even Derek's audible breaths did enough to cut through the tension building in the room. So Stiles did what he always did when confronted with silence; he started talking. "Dude, look. I don't have claws, okay? I don't have fangs and the ability to heal damn near anything. But I have _this_. I have this thing that I can do that _you can't._ I'm tired of feeling like I don't have any control. Let me have this."

Derek lifted his gaze to Stiles', and there was something a whole lot broken in it. Something terrified but also resigned, like he was coming to terms with the fact that he wasn't going to be able to talk Stiles out of this. "You're going to get yourself killed."

"If that happens, I give you permission to engrave 'I told you so' on my headstone. But until then… let me help." Sighing, Stiles pressed his palms to his eyes and rubbed hard at them. "Fuck, dude. _Please_."

When he dropped his hands, Derek was gone, but Deaton had a pleased look on his face and was holding aloft the jar of mountain ash, so… It looked like Stiles was going to get his magical mojo training montage after all.

—

Stiles breathed deeply, imagining a circle so hard he was pretty sure he was bursting something in his brain before he threw the ash in his hand into the air. And just like had happened the last time he'd done this trick — the last thirty or so times, actually, he'd lost count — the ash fell right back on him, getting in his hair and landing on his skin in an itchy cloud of dust.

He sneezed twice in quick succession before turning to stare despondently at Deaton, who was once again watching him with a frown creasing his forehead. 

"This should be working. You've closed an ash circle before; you should be able to do so again. There's no _reason_ for it not to be working." Squinting at Stiles, Deaton opened his mouth to ask—

"Yes, okay! Yes, I closed the ash circle at the rave. I swear to god I did; I have witnesses. Derek was there! He saw me do it!"

"Yes, alright," Deaton muttered, back to pacing. "I just don't understand why you can't do it now. You have the blessing of your Alpha. You _know_ you can do it since you've done it before, so belief shouldn't be an issue."

Stiles had been at this for _hours_ , and had thought of something shortly after his training started, but he hadn't wanted to say it then. Now, though… he was really getting tired of having ash get in his _everything._ "Well, maybe I need the adrenaline of having a kanima on the loose to get my magic juices flowing?"

"No, that doesn't make sense. Adrenaline would be worse, as it would disturb your focus. Think back; were you actually thinking in full sentences the night you closed the ash circle?"

Drumming his fingers on this thighs, Stiles tried to remember exactly what had gone through his brain the night of the rave. "No, I just… You told me I had to believe that it would work. I think, more than anything, I was just thinking, 'Please work.'" He shrugged then, spreading his hands wide. "I'm still not entirely sure I did it _right._ "

"You told me you were able to make a handful of ash stretch across a distance of about fifty feet. Such a feat, from the untrained, requires quite a bit of faith in oneself." Deaton rubbed a hand over his bald pate, for once looking as frustrated as Stiles felt. "This should be working. You should be able to call upon the same inner resolve to do these— Wait. You thought, 'please work?' _Why_ did you want it to work?"

Stiles shrugged. "I wanted to keep Jackson contained. Protect the pack and my dad and the rest of the town."

"Protection. I should have known. You may look at the world through your mother's eyes, but you have your father's heart." Deaton held out the jar of ash again and said, "This time, I want you to imagine that there is a threat to the pack. A threat to the town and to your father. You need to protect them all from a supernatural threat. Instead of focusing inward on yourself and your resolve, focus outward on _them_."

Stiles scooped up a handful of the ash and closed his eyes. It didn't take a ton of imagination to pull up the image that Deaton had painted; after all, that was just a Tuesday night in Beacon Hills. Imagining himself standing solid in front of the pack, a pack that held his father protectively in the middle, Stiles threw the mountain ash in the air and waited for it to fall right back on his head.

When that didn't happen, he peeked one eye open. And then he screeched a little in victory and hopped around like a madman. "I did it!"

Deaton flopped down onto an examination chair, rolling backward a few inches. To look at him, one would think _he'd_ been doing all the work that day. "Indeed you did, Mr. Stilinski. Congratulations." 

Stiles pointed around him at the thick, perfect circle of mountain ash. "That's it? That's all you have to say? Come on, man! Slow clap it out for me or _something_!"

Deaton's lips edged up at the corners. "Very good, Mr. Stilinski. Well done." Standing up, he walked to an overfilled bookshelf that took up the majority of one wall, selecting an armload of books from it. 

Thumping them down on the workbench with a loud bang, Deaton smiled at Stiles, showing teeth. Or maybe it was a threat display. "And now, your homework."

Definitely a threat display, Stiles decided with a groan.

—

Stiles huffed and puffed his way to the loft and just _leaned_ on the door, allowing his hand to swing freely from his shoulder to knock into it until he got his breath back. Seriously. _So many stairs, whyyyy?_

The door opened under his face, sending him stumbling forward into Derek, who caught him with an, " _Oof!_ "

"Whatever, asshole," Stiles grumbled, face kind of smushed against Derek's bounteous — but rock hard — pecs. "Fix the damn elevator, or I'm making you carry me up all these stairs next time."

"Princess style or fireman?" Derek asked, his chest vibrating under Stiles' cheek.

Pulling back, Stiles rolled his eyes. "You think you're being funny, but I have zero issues with my masculinity. Princess carry every time, dude. I do _not_ do well with hanging upside down."

Obviously having used up his daily allotment of words, Derek just stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest, one raised eyebrow questioning all of Stiles' life choices.

"Shut your face, dude," Stiles said, pushing at Derek and crowding him until they were fully inside the living space of the loft, then pushing some more until Derek was standing far enough away for Stiles to show him the nifty mountain ash circle trick. 

Locking his eyes on Derek, Stiles tossed the ash in the air, not even paying attention to where it fell as he watched the scowl fall off Derek's face for a moment, his features softening and his shoulders sagging a little. 

"Good. That's… good."

"I know, right? I am _so_ good at this shit!" Stiles crowed, pumping his fist in the air and doing a butt-shaking dance inside the protective circle.

"No, I meant—" But Derek cut himself off before saying anything more, even though Stiles was already squinting over his shoulder at him in suspicion.

"What? What did you mean?" Stiles asked slowly, turning the rest of the way around and bracing his hands on his hips.

Derek shrugged, shuffling forward and squatting down to edge his fingers as close to the line as he could get them, pressing against Stiles' circle. The action made Stiles feel like he was ascending in an airplane; working his jaw around, he swallowed quickly in an attempt to pop the pressure in his ears.

"What did you mean, Derek?" he asked again, not letting Derek get away with distracting him.

"It's good that you can protect yourself."

"Protect… myself? Derek. This isn't for _me_. I mean, yeah it's for me _too_ , but I'm not learning this shit so I can stand around in a mountain ash circle and watch you and the pack get ripped to shreds, you fucking prick." With a snarl, Stiles stooped down and swept the ash on the floor up into his hands, breaking the line for a brief moment before he tossed what he'd gathered back into the air and watched it fall in a circle around _Derek_. "I can protect _you._ I can trap other things inside their own circle. If I had known this shit that night, Derek? I could have put a circle around _just_ Jackson."

But for all the sense Stiles was talking, Derek didn't seem to be listening. Instead, his breathing was growing ragged, his eyes flashing and claws bursting from the ends of his fingers. "Trap," he wheezed in a voice that was as far from a growl as it was possible to get. "You could _trap…_ "

"Derek, whoa!" Stiles held his hands up, then smacked himself in the forehead and broke the line with the toe of his sneakers. "Dude, Derek, listen," he said, getting right up in Derek's face, planting his ash-covered hands on Derek's cheeks, holding on even while Derek started to flinch away from the contact. "Hey, dude, no, okay? No, I will never trap you. I would _never_ hurt you. Not on purpose. Not you, not the pack. This is for me to use against our enemies. This is for protection."

"Kate—"

"I am _not_ Kate," Stiles muttered fiercely, hands pressing more firmly into Derek's cheeks until his lips went a little fishy. "If I ever come anywhere close to being Kate, I give you permission to rip my throat out and dance on the bloody remains of my body, okay?" Stiles watched as Derek closed his eyes, the red still gleaming through where his eyelids met, which would never not be cool as fuck, honestly. "I will never be her because all she wanted was to destroy. I want to protect you…. The pack. I want to protect the pack." Stiles cleared his throat, easing his fingers off of Derek's stubbly cheeks and trying not to notice how they tingled.

"Why? You're _human_ , Stiles and—" 

_Oh, not this bullshit again._ "That doesn't mean shit, Derek! Yeah, I'm human, but I'm not _helpless_. You've never been human, so you don't know how incredibly demeaning it is to hear you say that like it's a disease, but trust me. I'm no more a fragile flower than you are vicious monster." Gesturing around them at the ash all over the floor, he stressed, "I am training to become your _emissary_. That's something that no werewolf, born or bitten, can become."

With a nudge of his foot, Stiles closed the circle again, locking himself _inside_ it with Derek, in a move so deliberate no one could fail to notice it. "You said I didn't trust you that night at the pool. You were wrong. I _do_ trust you, and I know, somewhere deep inside you, you trust me too. Human or not."

"I—" Derek shook his head, a muscle leaping in his jaw the only hint that he was feeling _anything_ at Stiles' words.

"Being human means I can help the pack in ways that you can't help yourselves because you're _not_ human. I refuse to sit back and watch people I love _die_ because they happen to turn hairy and howl at the moon once a month. Fuck that! You've said that the Hale pack were the protectors of this town, well guess what? The Stilinskis are protectors too. And I'm not letting anyone in this town get killed by fucking _hunters_ or kanimas or psycho douchebag uncles." Stiles breathed and leaned forward, getting right up in Derek's face. "Especially not you. You're the _Alpha_ , as you like to constantly remind us. The pack needs you. But guess what, asshole? You need us too. You need _me_ , Batman. I am your Alfred, whether you realize it or not."

"So I guess that makes me Commissioner Gordon?" 

The unexpected voice coming from near the door in combination with the emotions of the last hour had Derek reacting badly, spinning toward the door, even as Stiles froze in horror.

"...Dad?" Time seemed to come to a screeching halt, with Stiles and Derek stuck inside the circle, unable to move or — in Stiles' case — _breathe_ for a long minute. A minute during which Stiles heard his dad start wheezing and his much-vaunted protective instincts kicked in. "Oh shit. Dad!" 

Spinning away from a still-crouched and defensive Derek, Stiles broke the circle and ran over to his father, who was looking a little grim and pale and a little too wide-eyed for anyone's good. And also looking fighting fit in his _Sheriff's Department uniform_.

Stiles went to cheer that his dad had somehow got his job back, but John forestalled that with a hoarsely whispered, "Werewolf." His mouth was a little too slack, his wide eyes trained on... Derek's ass? 

Stiles absolutely understood the desire to scope out that ass, because _damn_ , but that seemed a bit out of character for his _dad_ in that moment. So he turned around and followed his dad's line of sight to see that he was actually staring at where Derek's fingers still ended in claws, claws that could not be explained. Neither, of course, could his eyes, but the angle of the sun cutting through the wall of windows at least obscured those.

"Um." Stiles made an abrupt little gesture at Derek with his fingers, down by the the side furthest from his father, and thought fast.

" _Werewolf_ ," his dad said again, and his voice sounded a hell of a lot stronger that time, which would have been a relief except for the fact that, yeah, he was figuring shit out at the speed of light.

"What?"

"For the love of God, Stiles!" John shouted. "I saw your Jeep outside the loft and came to tell you I'd got my badge back only to see…" Gesturing wildly at Derek, he made a few weird, choked noises in the back of his throat that Stiles would love to believe he didn't understand.

But he did. He totally did. 

He'd heard them before, though usually just directed at himself.

"Um, surprise? Look, I can explain."

"You can. Explain. _Werewolves._ "

Stiles scratched at the back of his neck and shrugged. "I mean, when you think about it, it explains _so much_."

John blinked, turned away, and began to walk toward the still-open door of the loft. Well, shit, had they not closed it?

Apparently not, because John grabbed onto the handle and put his back into it, closing the door with a screech and a bang. Turning back to face the room, and especially Derek — apparently his dad was back to ignoring Stiles completely, which yeah, okay, that stung — John planted his hands on his hips and said, "Your sister?"

Derek slanted a confused look at Stiles, his eyes back to their normal color, before shrugging at John. "I'm not sure what you're asking."

"Was she a werewolf too? Is that why you buried her like that?"

"Oh." Derek swallowed, and even from across the room, Stiles could hear the way his throat clicked. "Yes, she was. My whole family were born 'wolves. My mom was the Alpha, then it passed to Laura after the fire before Peter killed her for it. And then… me."

John rubbed at his forehead with his fingers, pacing back and forth as he muttered to himself, too low for Stiles to catch anything he was saying. Finally, he stopped in the middle of his circuit and said, "Okay, there's too much. Start at the beginning, and tell me everything you know."

Derek, already still in the middle of the room, surrounded by a mess of mountain ash, went statue-stiff except for his mouth, which opened and closed wordlessly.

"Oh crap, Dad. You've broken him. You can't ask someone who was literally born into the supernatural world to start at the beginning and explain everything. That's too much, and we all know Derek can't word good on a normal day. Everyone sit down. I'll talk and Derek can correct me if necessary." Stiles waited for his dad to stare at him for a long, assessing moment before he complied with a nod. 

Derek, however, just stood where he was, seeming unable to move. Stiles narrowed his eyes at him and moved closer. 

"What's wrong? I swear I broke the circle…"

Derek gave his head a tiny shake, his eyes flickering over Stiles' shoulder. "Your dad. I don't want to scare him, and there's only the one sofa."

Stiles turned around, raising his eyebrows at his father. "Dad, you okay sharing a sofa with Derek?"

"Yeah, why? Does it have fleas?"

At the word _it_ , Stiles felt Derek stiffen behind him even as horror flooded Stiles himself. But then his dad, who was too busy struggling to get up from the sofa to pay them much attention — it had a tendency to suck people into its cushions — muttered, "I knew I'd seen it on the corner down the road. This is why you don't pick up other people's junk, kids."

"It's fine, Dad. Derek would know if it had any creepy crawlies." Stiles put a hand on Derek's arm, feeling his own relief echoed in the way Derek's muscles went from taut to relaxed — or close enough for Derek, anyway. "Go sit, dude," Stiles murmured, low enough that only Derek could hear. 

Derek growled at him, low and menacing with a little snap of his teeth near Stiles' ear while John was still turned away poking at the sofa, which made Stiles jump and scowl at Derek in return. And then he realized what he'd said and rolled his eyes. "Not like that, idiot. Just sit down and stop lurking. He'll be much more relaxed if _you_ are."

Derek snorted, but complied after shaking Stiles gently by the scruff of his neck, a not-so-subtle warning to be good.

And then Stiles was left with the whole living area to pace through as he thought about where _he_ should start. When his dad lost patience and cleared his throat pointedly, Stiles turned to him and smiled brightly. "So, remember that night you found me out in the woods, and I told you Scott wasn't with me? Well, funny story…"

—

Stiles' eyes were crossing as he sat in the library, math book propped open on end in front of him to hide the small, handwritten journal he was trying — and failing — to translate from the original French. 

"What's that smell, Isaac?" he heard, the voice a low purr so close to his ear that he jumped and _meeped_.

"God! Erica, what the he—" Stiles spun around, catching the eye of the librarian and instantly dropping his voice to a low whisper. "What the hell, Erica?"

"Smells like someone's been rolling around in _our_ Alpha's special sauce," Isaac sneered before biting into a bright red apple.

Seriously, what _was_ it with these two and their love of menacingly eating apples during school hours? Also, where were they buying their produce, because Stiles hadn't seen apples as perfect as the ones they brought in… ever.

"You angling for the bite, Stilinski?" Erica's red, red lips parted in a threatening smile. "Let's practice, then, shall we?" And she opened her mouth wide, allowing her fangs to drop down as she moved fractionally closer to Stiles.

Stiles flinched backward so hard his chair lifted onto its back legs before thumping to the ground again. "The b-bite? Um, no? I didn't want the bite when Peter offered it to me, and I don't want it now. Why? And also, why the fuck do you care?"

"If you don't want it," Isaac said, sliding into the chair beside Stiles' and then edging it closer until Stiles was literally caught between the two betas, each of them pressed against him until he felt flushed and overheated, "why does the loft smell like you? Why does _Derek_ smell like you? And why do you smell like Derek?"

"Oh my god, you idiots. Let me guess. You didn't ask Derek any of this?" When they looked at each other over his head, then turned to him with identical bland shrugs, Stiles groaned. "I am instituting a mandatory 'share information with everyone' rule. Look, the reason we smell like each other is because I'm training to become the pack emissary." Lifting his arm, he thrust it under Erica's nose and asked, "I smell a lot like Deaton too, don't I?"

Erica sniffed at him delicately, but then shrugged. "I dunno what Deaton smells like. But you definitely smell like Derek. Still."

"Okay, fine. I smell like Derek. And my dad, and Scott and probably the few hundred random teenagers that bump into me during the day."

"Nah," Isaac offered, making Stiles turn back to him. "You smell way more like Derek than anyone else. Smells like he's scenting you."

"Scenting… me. Are you trying to tell me it smells like he's pissing on me?!" Stiles yelped in a hushed tone, leaping up so quickly that his chair tipped over backward.

"No, Stilinski. Like he's put his hands on you." Isaac dragged his nose over the skin at the back of Stiles' neck. "Right here," he murmured, his breath rushing over Stiles' sensitive ears. 

"Okay, creeper! Stop with the sexual harassment!" Stiles swatted at Isaac, who stepped back with a snort of derision. "Whatever. I get it, you're both super jealous that I'm spending time with your Alpha. That's actually very understandable considering how new you are to the whole," he looked around and lowered his voice even more to barely whisper, " _werewolf_ thing."

Erica started to scoff, but Stiles cut her off. 

"Seriously, guys. It's a whole pack thing. It's actually probably why you can smell Derek on me so strongly and no one else. Your wolfy side is trying to make connections with your Alpha. It's normal."

"You know this how?" Erica asked, arms crossing over her chest and then, like an afterthought, doing that thing where she bunched her boobs up with them. 

Stiles was old-hat at ignoring that now, so he just shrugged and said, "Because, I told you. I'm studying to be the pack emissary."

"Derek is letting you? He barely lets _us_ do anything, but he's letting you learn to be the pack emissary?" That was a new voice this time, and Stiles whirled to see Boyd standing there, a look on his face that Stiles didn't know how to interpret.

"I mean, not exactly willingly? I had to explain to him _multiple_ times that I could help protect you guys. I don't know if you realize, but that's kind of really important to him."

There wasn't a response to that, but Stiles couldn't help but catch the way the three betas sent each other heartbreaking looks of disbelief. 

"No, really. You guys. You're his pack. His…" Stiles rubbed the palm of one hand over his buzzed head and then looked around the library. 

They were gaining a bit of an audience just due to the fact that the betas were sort of infamous around the school now, and it probably looked like a one-sided gang war was about to break out. So Stiles turned and walked between the stacks, checking back to make sure they were following before leading them to a secluded corner of the library where he could pace a little while he thought of how to say this.

"When my mom died, my dad became… everything. But that was a lot, really, because it meant that I was constantly terrified that _he_ would die too. Derek lost his _entire_ pack. His parents and siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents and… And then his last remaining pack, his last remaining _family_ came back here and got killed by his uncle, who _he_ had to kill. So imagine how much worse it is for him."

Stiles looked from Boyd to Erica to Isaac, letting his words sink in. "You're his new pack. A pack he hand-picked, no less. Yeah, Peter bit Scott, so Scott's sort of automatically pack — and I wedged myself in there through sheer grit and determination — but Derek _chose_ you. And more than that, he made you. Imagine how terrified he must be that something horrible might happen to you. To any of you.

"So yeah," he muttered feebly when no one rushed to fill in the quiet that descended, "he's letting me train to be the pack emissary. Because he doesn't want to lose you. He wants to protect you, even if that means working with _me_. It's why he's so obsessed with training you all, with becoming more powerful. He doesn't want the power for himself. He wants it to protect _you_ , to keep his new family safe."

Erica and Boyd were still looking at him like they didn't quite believe the words falling from his lips, but there was something broken-open in Isaac's expression. Something that told Stiles he was getting through to at least one of them.

And then he remembered that Isaac, too, had lost his first pack, and Stiles moved closer to him, setting a hand gently on Isaac's shoulder and squeezing, offering silent comfort.

"He'll do anything for his family," he murmured, meeting Isaac's wounded gaze with a gentle smile. "Even stand around and watch me practice making mountain ash circles."

—

"The betas came to the loft today," Derek said from the darkest corner of Stiles' _completely dark_ bedroom, scaring the ever loving shit out of Stiles that night as he walked into his room in preparation for going to bed that night.

"What. What? Why?! What the fuck did I ever do to deserve to have a heart attack and _die_ at the hands of creepy fucking werewolves who can't _knock on doors like regular people_?" Stiles screeched, hanging off his door jamb and clutching at his chest with his free hand. His heart was really not cut out for this shit.

"Stiles?" his dad called from downstairs, the creak-pop of his recliner letting Stiles know he was already getting up to see what the ruckus was about.

"Nothing, Dad!" Stiles shouted back, and then remembered that his dad was in the know and added, "It's just Derek being _weird_ and trying to scare me to death. Just your average Wednesday night in good ol' Beacon Hills, California." Rolling his eyes directly at Derek, he added, "You'll get used to it."

"All right," his dad called, then after the creak of his recliner going back up, he added, "Leave the door open."

Stiles rolled his eyes again, at his dad's addendum, but when he moved to close the door, he did leave it open a crack just in case. Turning back around, he clapped his hands together and said, "So! What brings you lurking around my neighborhood?"

"I came to say thank you," Derek offered, his voice at once gruff and gentle as he stepped out of the shadows and right up to Stiles. Reaching out to smooth down Stiles' shirt collar, Derek's lips did a twist thing that looked a little bit like it might be the ghost of a smile. "Isaac told me what you said to the betas today, and… They finally understand the meaning of pack. So thank you. I'm," Derek paused, nostrils flaring as his gaze dropped to Stiles' gaping mouth. " _Grateful_ ," he finally said after several long moments. "I'm grateful for what you said to them, and also… that you don't take no for an answer." He lifted his hand from Stiles' collar to tweak his ear with the gentle flick of a finger.

Stiles squeaked out a, "What?! No! Consent is a thing, yo. No means no, and I totally—" Derek's thumb smushed his lips together, cutting off the flow of words. The rest of his fingers fanned out across Stiles' jaw, lingering just a little until, as he pulled his fingers away, Stiles unconsciously leaned forward, following them.

"You didn't listen when I said I didn't want you to be my emissary." Lowering his voice, he tilted his head toward Stiles' and murmured, "In case you missed the memo, this is me telling you I'm glad. I'm glad you pushed me. I'm glad it's you. You're already saving my pack, and you haven't even had to do any mystical nonsense yet."

Stiles stared at him, wide-eyed and shocked silent — and a little bit bursting with a weird combination of pride and arousal — even as Derek winked at him and then stepped away to do a backward somersault out of Stiles' open window.

Because of course he did.

"Show off!" Stiles shouted into the balmy night, shaking his fist in the general direction of the Preserve because _Derek was nowhere in sight._

—

Deaton looked up from his desk in the back office when Stiles arrived for their next mentoring session and gestured for Stiles to shut the door behind him. 

"What did you learn from your readings this week?" Deaton asked, not one to linger over pleasantries.

Blowing out a breath, Stiles grimaced and dropped into the chair positioned in front of Deaton's desk. "Not a lot? I mean, the runes are awesome, don't get me wrong, but I feel like being able to write my name in funny squigglies isn't going to be all that helpful. Besides which, if I have to try to translate anymore handwritten, centuries-old texts in French, I'll stab my own eyes out. Can't I have something in, I dunno. English?"

Deaton's lips twitched, and he nodded slowly. "There isn't one prescribed language for... magic. Generally speaking, what we do is about will. It's difficult to translate your own will into a language other than the one you're most comfortable with."

"So...you're saying I can cast spells or whatever in Klingon? Or elvish? That's so badass!" 

Shaking his head with a little chuckle, Deaton just ignored Stiles to tug open a drawer on his desk and pull out… a horseshoe? It made a dull clang as it dropped onto the battered surface of Deaton's desk. "As we've discovered, your faith lies not in your strength of will but in your soul-deep conviction to protect those around you. Faith without knowledge, however, can be dangerous. Your next task is to tell me what this is and why it would be important." 

Stiles squinted at Deaton, wondering if this was a trick question. "You do know I am the king of supernatural trivia, right? Horseshoes over the doorway… Irish folklore, hanging in a U-shape, like this," Stiles picked up the horseshoes and held it upright, "it's meant to convey good luck on the home. There's a story about some blacksmith making the devil a horseshoe and putting it on him still hot from the fire. The devil asked him to remove it, and the blacksmith made a deal with him to never set foot in a home with a horseshoe hanging over the door, but honestly? That never made sense to me because isn't the devil supposed to reign over hell? And hell is supposedly hot, so—"

"Dante is the one who created the concept of a fiery hell. Remember that the idea of hell is a very Western idea." Deaton waited, his features that blank, perfect patience while Stiles mulled that over before nodding for Deaton to continue. "What else do you know of horseshoes?"

Stiles ran his thumb down the curved edge of the horseshoe in his hand, the weight of it somewhat surprising. "It's made of… iron. Iron, from everything I've ever read and seen of mythology, is supposed to repel and/or harm the fae."

"Very good." A hint of pride shone in Deaton's eyes before he turned to the workbench and pulled a cloth off of it. Underneath were a bunch of… rocks? "Today, we'll be working with raw ore, learning their strengths and weaknesses and how they can be used to help protect against or aid the supernatural."

Thrumming with eagerness, Stiles nearly skipped over to stand beside Deaton, reaching out one hand to touch a rock that seemed to catch all the light in the clinic in a dazzling display, only to have Deaton slap his hand away.

"Lesson number one: don't touch the shiny things unless you know what they are."

Stiles grumbled a little, rubbing at his hand even as he fought a grin. And then the door burst open with a bang, Scott stumbling through it out of breath and looking like he was being chased by ghouls.

God, Stiles hoped ghouls weren't really a thing.

"Scott?" Deaton asked gently, moving toward Scott in a manner than was both calm and nonthreatening, which was probably a good thing because Scott's eyes were flashing between beta yellow and his normal deep brown. "Is everything all right? Do I need to contact your mother?"

Scott shook his head, bending over and putting one hand on his knee while thrusting the other toward Deaton. "These… Gerard. Don't… know…."

Stiles bounded across the room to his backpack and upended it, looking for the inhaler that he'd been carrying with him all school year. It had cost him a pretty penny in lawn-mowing funds, but had been worth it to not have to worry about Scott dying on him.

And then werewolves had come along…

Stiles found the inhaler finally and plucked it up, dashing back to Scott's side and pressing it into his hands. Scott shot him a wan smile and actually took a puff on it, though that might have been just to make Stiles feel better about the whole situation.

"What's going on?" Stiles asked, looking between Scott, who finally seemed to be catching his breath again, and Deaton, who was staring down at two little white pills in the palm of his hand with a deep frown etched into his face.

"You got these from Gerard, you said? Argent, I presume?" Deaton murmured before going across the room and picking up the handset of the office phone that hung on the wall. 

While he dialled whomever he was placing the call to, Stiles helped Scott over to a chair and knelt beside him. "Dude, what's going on?"

"Gerard. He, oh god. He came up to me tonight, Stiles. I've been trying to talk to Allison, you know, since everything that happened with her mom, and she sent me a message to meet her. Or, I thought it was her? But it was _Gerard_ —" they both gave little shudders at that thought "—and he was talking crazy about you and Derek teaming up and how if I wanted Allison back, I would have to deliver the Alpha that killed her mom. But Derek _didn't_ kill Mrs. Argent! She killed herself, my mom said so! She saw the body and everything. There wasn't a bite on her."

"But I mean, Derek _did_ bite her, right?" Stiles asked, face scrunched up as he tried to remember everything he'd heard about that night.

"Right, but I mean, only because she was trying to kill me, remember? He bit her, but it wasn't like it was a fatal bite. She would have healed from it easily."

Stiles raised his eyes to Scott's. "As a werewolf, though. That's why she killed herself. Derek's bite turned her, erased the evidence of his bite, and she killed herself to keep from becoming a werewolf."

"Right. Their family has this whole pact thing, it's gross. But anyway, Gerard wanted me to get Derek somewhere that Gerard could get to him and—"

"You said no, right?"

"I mean, I didn't say no, exactly, but I also didn't want him to kill me right then and there. I figured, you know, get away from him and find you and you could tell Derek what's going on because—"

"Dude, what, you haven't told Derek yet that Allison's psycho grandfather and his hunter buddies are trying to find him?!"

Scott flailed his arms around, hissing, "I didn't want to escape certain death at the hands of Gerard only to run into it at the _teeth and claws_ of Derek, okay! He listens to you. If you tell him what happened…"

"What makes you think he's going to listen to me any more than he listens to you?" Stiles asked, stupefied.

"You're his emissary. Not only that but like… I'm pretty sure he likes you, dude."

"I mean, we've come a long way, but I wouldn't exactly call us friendly, Scott. He still likes to throw my whole 'being human' thing in my face like it's my damn fault I wasn't born with fur and fangs."

"No, I mean. I think he _likes_ you, likes you. Like, he smells super happy when you're around, and then he smells all conflicted and angry, but not at you? It's weird. _He's_ weird." Scott shrugged, all easy like he hadn't just thrown information at Stiles that was causing his brain to go completely off line.

Derek _liked_ him, liked him? 

Also, what was with the middle-school crush lingo? 

Stiles was about to open his mouth and ask about fifty thousand rapid-fire questions when Deaton came back over and redirected the path of their conversation with a calmly uttered, "Gerard Argent has stage four prostate cancer. His prognosis is… bad."

"Asshole cancer for a complete asshole. Sounds about right," Stiles muttered, not feeling even a little sorry. But his brain was whirring, going around and around in circles with Derek's name at the very middle of it all and… "Oh shit. He wants the bite." Stiles looked up at Deaton, horror filling him, even as Deaton met his eyes with a tiny nod of his head.

"That is the conclusion I also reached, Mr. Stilinski. We should call Derek. He needs to know everything that transpired this evening."

"And any other evening when you were around the Argents, Scott," Stiles said pointedly, a scowl pulling at his mouth. "I don't _care_ if it makes Allison more angry or whatever, he needs to know."

Scott frowned, his eyebrows drawing together as he turned a hurt look on Stiles. "I know that, dude. Her family is seriously messed up, okay, and I'm worried about what they might be telling her, but you're my _brother_ and you're his _emissary_ , so… for better or for worse, right? It's like, he's the in-laws now or something. I have to live with him, so I may as well make the best of it."

Stiles felt himself sagging in relief at Scott's statement. With everything that had been going on, he wasn't entirely sure where Scott's loyalties actually lay, so…

"He's still a complete asshole, though," Scott muttered, even as Deaton spoke low into the phone again.

Stiles grinned, slinging his arm around Scott's shoulders. "Yeah, but he's _our_ asshole."

—

Stiles watched nervously as Derek sat on the couch in the Stilinskis' living room, just staring down at his hands. Then Stiles looked back at Scott, who just shrugged at him, clearly feeling he'd done his bit and the rest was up to Stiles. 

Some best friend _Scott_ was.

"Derek?" Stiles finally prompted when the silence got to be too much, then flinched at the closed-off look on Derek's face when he finally lifted it. "Dude, what—"

"Do it," Derek interrupted, squaring his shoulders. "Give me to him. You'll all be safe from them then, and—"

"Uh, no? That's a really stupid plan, Derek, and I know stupid plans, okay?" Scott hooked an elbow around Stiles' neck, giving him a noogie. "I grew up with this guy."

"Yeah, listen to Scott," Stiles said, even as he elbowed Scott in the side for impugning his honor. "The _psychotic hunters_ aren't going to stop hunting everyone just because they get you, okay? And Gerard becoming an Alpha? That's like—"

"What?!" came from Scott and Derek both, cutting through Stiles' argument.

"What do you mean, what?" Stiles asked, moving to where he could look back and forth between the two. 

"The bit about Gerard becoming an Alpha," Scott muttered, looking a little pale and sickly under his natural tan.

Stiles blinked at them both, before he shrugged. "I mean, that's kind of the logical progression, right? Gerard gets the bite from Derek, then kills Derek to become Alpha." Stiles pointed at Derek. "Under no circumstances are we going to let _that_ happen, so you keep yourself out of their clutchy hunter clutches, understand?"

Derek nodded, looking as shaken as Scott. 

"Good, so now we need to get the betas here and tell them what's going on and—"

The house phone began to ring, interrupting Stiles even as Derek sat straight up on the sofa, his bearing going a bit more 'wolfy' than normal. Dread filling him, Stiles leapt into the kitchen, grabbing the phone just before it could roll over to voicemail. 

"Hello?"

" _Mister. Stilinski._ " Gerard Argent's voice hummed down the line, sounding a little bit _too_ pleased with himself.

"What the fuck do you want, you lunatic?" Stiles asked, his hands beginning to shake as rage flooded through him.

" _Do you know where your friends are, boy?_ "

Stiles turned, bumping into both Derek _and_ Scott, who had followed him into the kitchen. "Uh, pretty sure I do, yeah. So again, let me ask: what the fuck do you _want_?"

Down the line came a bitten-off scream of pain that was all too familiar to Stiles. Derek was pressed all up against his back immediately, letting out a little subvocal growl that Stiles could feel all along his spine.

" _I guess that means this one isn't your friend, then. Pity for the little bitch, I suppose._ "

"Oh, you did _not_ just call Erica a bitch," Stiles breathed, stunned at the lack of care Gerard was exhibiting with what was left of his horrible life. "She is gonna _gut_ you."

" _Not if I gut her first_ ," Gerard said, laughing lightly as Erica screamed again.

Blood running cold, Stiles tightened his grip on the phone, planting one hand in Derek's face as Derek made a move for the phone. Shaking his head with a mouthed, furious, _No!_ , Stiles growled into the receiver, "What do you want."

" _I want your Alpha._ "

"Where are you?" 

" _At my son's house, of course. Come quickly, boy, before I'm tempted to add a fresh pelt to the floor._ " Obviously a sucker for the last word, Gerard hung up then, leaving Stiles listening to the drone of the dial tone.

Stiles slammed the phone down, then picked it up and slammed it over and over, screaming in fury. Scott's hand came down over his, tightening but not bruising, and gently helped him guide the phone back into its cradle. 

"We'll get them back," Scott murmured, then looked up at Derek. "We'll get our whole pack back. For our Alpha."

Derek staggered a little, his eyes flaring red even as Scott tilted his head, baring his throat in submission. 

Stiles appreciated the little display, of course he did, but his brain was too busy spinning, making and discarding plans at the speed of light, to stop and coo at Scott _finally_ joining the Hale pack. With Scott otherwise occupied, Stiles lifted the phone and hit speed dial 1, not breathing until he heard Tara's voice say, " _Sheriff's Department, how may I help you this evening?_ " 

—

"Stupid," Stiles muttered to himself, even as he parked the Jeep and jumped out, pocketing his keys. "Stupid, stupid, stupid Stilinski. This is really stupid."

Taking out his phone, he called Scott and waited for him to pick up.

" _Stiles? What's wrong? I thought you were supposed to be picking up Isaac, but he just got here, and he said—_ "

"I'm at the Argent's house," Stiles said, cutting through Scott's worried chatter.

" _You…_ " 

There was a fumble on the other end, a loud scuffle that came through clearly.

" _What. Stiles, get your ass back here right now!_ " Derek shouted down the line, fear heavy in his voice. 

"No. Look, dude, none of you can come here. They'll kill any werewolves on sight, or do to you whatever they're doing to Erica or… you know, get you to _bite Gerard_ and _then_ kill you. I'm human. They're not supposed to hurt humans, right?"

" _Stiles…_ " Derek's voice sounded lost, hopeless, like he was already envisioning Stiles' funeral. " _There were humans in my family. Kate killed them too._ "

Stiles closed his eyes and just breathed for a moment. "Well," he finally said, standing upright. "I'm not just human, am I? As your emissary, it's my job to negotiate for you. I'm not going to let them take anymore pack from you. Never again. I'll get Erica and Boyd back, Derek. I promise." And then he ended the call, turned off his phone, and shoved it into his underwear before heading toward the house with purpose, not slowing down even when two armed thugs came out to greet him.

—

Okay, so being thrown down a flight of rickety wooden stairs was definitely a life experience Stiles wanted to avoid again… ever. Add that to his resumé.

Also? Negotiating was apparently not high on his list of achievements. Maybe keep that one _off_ his resumé.

Sitting up with a wince, Stiles looked around the basement until he noticed two familiar figures hanging from chains and… electrical leads?

"Fuck," Stiles muttered, jumping up quickly and dashing over to them. "I'm here. I'm here to rescue you," he said softly, the words strengthening his own resolve though from the looks of things, neither of the werewolves were conscious to hear them.

His hands fluttered around Boyd's limp form for a long moment before he stripped his shirt off. Gritting his teeth, he beat at the bare wires attached to Boyd, swallowing a yelp as one of the wires _almost_ touched him as it finally disconnected from Boyd's scorched skin. But he kept swinging at the electric wires until they were sparking uselessly against the bare concrete floor. Boyd's eyelids were already fluttering by then, so Stiles did the same for Erica, then started to attack the thick metal cuffs holding her to the ceiling, which was when a creak from above made Stiles skitter away from them, putting a finger over his lips and whispering, "Act like you're still unconscious."

Erica gave him an exhausted hint of her usual saucy wink before letting her eyes flutter shut once more. Boyd just closed his eyes, a little too stiff to look natural. They'd have to work on his acting skills if they made it out of this alive.

"Well, well, well," Gerard sneered, coming into view one heavy, measured step at a time like the melodramatic asswipe that he was. "I see you failed to uphold your end of our deal, Mr. Stilinski," he added as he cleared the final step.

"There was no deal. Like I would make a deal with you?" Stiles sneered at him, turning deliberately so that Gerard wouldn't notice that Erica and Boyd weren't still being treated to his little electric bugaloo display. 

"Then I will simply add you to my collection. Perhaps if I start delivering you back to young Scott in pieces, he'll learn the value of cooperation." Gerard smiled, but there was something far more inhuman about him in that moment than Stiles had ever seen before in this town.

A shiver went through Stiles, even as he lifted his chin and scoffed. "Oh, whatever, you old geezer. What are you, ninety? I bet I could kick your ass all up and down this—"

Gerard's first punch made Stiles see stars. The second and third opened up entirely new galaxies for him, but they also, oddly, strengthened him. With the next punch, Stiles allowed himself to go down, but grabbed onto Gerard's shirt, using his own body weight to tug Gerard down. Grunting with effort, he rolled until his legs were curled up between them and _kicked_ , sending Gerard sailing over his head.

Flipping onto his stomach, Stiles ignored his screaming legs and lower back as he turned to see Gerard roll right where he'd been aiming… onto the still-sparking wires. With a werewolf-incapacitating dose of electricity running through them, Gerard never stood a chance. His body twitched, his muscles seizing even as his mouth opened in a silent, tortured scream.

"Die, bastard," he snarled, taking fiendish delight in watching smoke begin to rise from Gerard's convulsing body. "That's fucking karma right there. Universal payback from the Hale pack."

Pushing to his feet, he limped over to Erica and Boyd, who were both looking much better after a few minutes' reprieve, and picked the locks on their manacles. He waved them toward the stairs, though neither of them moved to leave. Instead, they took a moment to hover near Gerard, heads cocked as they obviously listened for signs of life. It was actually Boyd's wide, toothy smile that convinced Stiles that the insane old fucker was actually dead.

"Ding dong, the witch is dead!" Stiles sung softly, then let out an 'oof' as Erica threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. 

"Thanks," she whispered before pulling back and slugging him softly in the shoulder, the tap so light he barely felt it. Then she took a moment to look him over, growling softly as her fingers brushed at the skin near his eye. A hiss from Boyd made them both look up and realize … oh yeah, they had to get the hell out of there. 

Stiles followed Erica and Boyd up the stairs, all of them freezing and wincing every time they creaked, but finally getting to the top and navigating their way out of the murder basement using the betas senses to help them all slip past hunters and back into the night to where… his Jeep wasn't.

"Oh, goddamn," Stiles breathed. "They took Roscoe."

"It's okay," Erica said, her voice just a little high and frightened. "We'll run to your house. Cut through the Preserve."

"You do remember I don't have super speed, right?"

"We'll carry you if we have to," Boyd said, his deep voice rumbling in the dark. "Come on."

Stiles nodded and pulled his phone out of his underwear, turning it on to place a quick call to Scott.

"We're out. They have my Jeep, so we're cutting through the Preserve to—"

"No! Shit! Gerard was the kanima's master. He's… Stiles. Stay away from the Preserve. Jackson's already killed three hunters. We're trying to contain him, but…"

Stiles flicked a glance toward Erica and Boyd, whose ears were cocked and eyes flashing in the moonlight.

"We're on our way," he said, then hung up and called Lydia.

"If you want to know about all the weird shit going on, come to the Preserve. I'll explain everything, but first… I need you to keep your boyfriend from killing his pack."

" _This had better not be a joke, Stilinski,_ " Lydia hissed, but then the phone went dead in Stiles' hand, so he could only hope she was on her way.

Erica scooped him up in her arms then and started to run. "Our pack needs us," she growled, face already in beta shift. "Put the phone down and focus."

Stiles wrapped a hand around her neck and groaned at the trees that started to flash by. "I may need to revise my thoughts on princess carry."

—

Lydia met them at the entrance to the Preserve, eyes wide and mouth compressed into a tight line. "Dog fighting? _This_ is what you people have been hiding from me?" she asked, hands balled into fists.

Stiles' entire forehead wrinkled in confusion before he registered the sounds of the pack fighting. And… okay, actually, dog fighting probably made the most sense to someone who didn't know the whole, sordid history of Beacon Hills. Well, as long as dog fighting included random gunshots.

"No," Erica said, dropping Stiles to the ground, but waiting until he was steady before really releasing him. Woo, progress! 

"Your boyfriend is an out-of-control lizard monster," Boyd added, then left them behind when a howl rang out.

Stiles grabbed onto Erica before she could do the same, and merely pointed at Lydia. "Time is of the essence, Catwoman."

Erica rolled her eyes, but turned to Lydia and let her beta shift take over. 

To give Lydia credit, she only flinched once before leaning forward into Erica's face, eyes narrowed as she studied Erica's gleaming teeth, then nodded once, and said, "Werewolves. This town makes so much more sense now."

"Right?!" Stiles asked, flailing. "That's what I said too!"

"Shut up, Stilinski. We're still not friends. I'm here because you offered me information."

A loud whine followed the sound of a gunshot that echoed eerily, and then Erica was scooping Stiles up again and rushing toward danger. Which was okay, because he was feeling the same urgency that was obviously driving her. Lydia would just have to take care of herself. 

Stiles had a pack to protect.

The battle was already going strong when they got there, hunters and pack swarming all over the clearing, snarls and howls underscored by the crack of gunshots. Erica nearly threw Stiles to the ground, but he managed to somehow roll to his feet without getting too damaged in the process.

His dad was there, gun in hand, and tossed a paper sack toward him that he fumbled twice before getting a solid hold on it. Opening it, he saw a large plastic zipper bag of mountain ash and nearly crowed in triumph.

Taking a handful of ash, he tossed a circle wide enough to encompass himself and his father, then started looking around for Jackson.

He couldn't find the kanima, though, not with everything else that was going on. So Stiles pinpointed the pack, instead, doing his best to help each of them in their battles against the human hunters while also ready to lay protective circles around each of them if necessary.

Scott and Isaac were fighting back to back, not leaving each other for long though neither of them were doing enough looking _up_ for Stiles' peace of mind. Arrows were flying out of the darkness randomly, but they seemed to be taking out _hunters_ , so apparently Allison and Scott were on again. Erica, Boyd, and Derek were moving almost faster than they eye could see, sometimes propelling each other at hunters like body-shaped, claw-and-teeth wielding missiles. The entire _pack_ was fighting like they knew exactly where each other would be at any given moment.

It was beautiful.

And then Derek was thrown into a tree nearby, causing Stiles' already racing heart to trip into overdrive. "Derek," he shouted, even as Derek was leaping to his feet ready to rejoin the fray. 

Blowing out a breath of relief to see Derek still on his feet and moving, Stiles looked around, and then up and … _there_. 

Jackson.

One handful of mountain ash later, the kanima was contained and the pack — and Lydia — were moving in to deal with it. Stiles shared a bone-crushing hug with his dad, then turned to see that Derek was rushing toward him, dirt-streaked face split in a wide grin. 

Stiles stepped forward to break the circle surrounding him and his dad when a flicker of movement at the corner of Stiles' vision made him jerk his head to look, and what he saw had his heart clenching in fear. They may have dealt with the kanima, but these woods were crawling with hunters. Calling out to Derek had identified the Alpha, and at least one of them was paying attention. The hunter shot a quick, dirty smile at Stiles before lifting his rifle to his shoulder. 

At that moment, everything around Stiles seemed to slow down to a crawl. The world was in hyperfocus, sharpened and enlarged so that the tiny flinch at the corner of the hunter's eyes as he made the decision to fire seemed to take five minutes instead of the fraction of a second between the contraction of the muscles around his eyes and the pull of the trigger.

Stiles didn't even wait for the flash and bang of the rifle discharging. He knew what was in that bullet. With a leap, he ripped himself free of the mountain ash circle keeping him safe from stray claws and hurtled his body in front of the bullet meant for Derek.

The instant the bullet ripped into him, time redoubled on itself, speeding up and racing ahead. Pain scorched through his chest, and he coughed out a strangled scream as he stumbled, the ground rushing up to meet him. But he jerked to a halt with inches between his nose and the forest floor, strong hands gripping him so hard he could already feel the bruises blossoming beneath the claw-tipped fingers.

Derek.

"Stiles!" Derek turned him carefully, wolfy eyes wide and lips pulled back in a snarl of fury mingled with terror as he pressed a hand over the place where the bullet felt like it was still trying to burrow through Stiles' breastbone. "Jesus Christ, Stiles," he slurred around a mouthful of jagged teeth, a low sound rumbling from his chest.

Stiles curled in on himself, trying to escape the agony of a _gunshot wound to the fucking chest_ , but managed a limp grin for Derek. "Saved yer ass again, Hale. Hah. That's two you owe me."

The sounds of the battle around them grew louder then and Derek raised his head, gaze snapping to something behind Stiles. A piercing scream rang out — or maybe that was just Stiles' body shrieking with pain — as Derek eyes went a brighter red than Stiles had ever seen.

The howl that broke free of Derek's throat should have come with a warning label. 

"No, it's three. So don't you dare die," Derek growled before gently handing Stiles to his father who was suddenly right there. Then Derek leapt over them to go rip the heads from some hapless hunters.

"Stiles," his dad murmured, his voice sounding wobbly as he stroked one shaking hand over Stiles' head. Stiles tried to smile for him, wanting to reassure his dad he'd be okay, but everything was getting too heavy and he had to do something…

Something...

Stiles closed his eyes, suddenly too tired to keep them open, even though he knew it was dangerous to do so. With the last ounce of the strength in him, he focused his mind and concentrated. He rubbed his fingers together, feeling the grittiness of mountain ash coating his hand. He focused on the feeling of the ash, pushed it to the tips of two fingers and pressed them into the bullet wound in his chest—

His own scream pierced his ears and made his skull start pounding. 

He felt himself being jostled then, felt more hands on his body. Wrenching open eyes wet with tears of pain, he winced at the twin looks of stark terror on his dad and Derek's faces and whispered, "So...rry. That was… loud." And then he let his aching head roll forward on his neck until it thunked against Derek's shoulder.

When the shock of the pain no longer impeded his ability to think, Stiles drew in as deep a breath as his injury would allow and envisioned the ash forming an impenetrable circle around the bullet that was still sitting lodged against his breastbone. And then he lifted his hand and _called_ the ash back to his palm.

Fuuuuuuuuck.

"Note to self," he muttered as the spots in his vision began to grow larger. "Bullets hurt just as much on the way back out."

The blackness that swallowed him up didn't offer much of a reply.

—

The first person Stiles saw when he opened his eyes was Melissa McCall, whose normal expression of professional concern had been replaced with one of relief… followed closely by motherly rage. "You idiot!" she snarled, smacking him lightly on his knee, which had been about the only part of him that _didn't_ hurt. "Don't you ever scare us like that again!"

His head still swimming with whatever they'd given him, Stiles blinked, unable to answer her due to the tube down his throat. When he opened his eyes again, either he'd lost time or he'd hallucinated Melissa…

...or he was hallucinating now?

Because the face taking up his whole field of vision when he opened his eyes _again_ belonged to Derek. And then Derek was sighing out his name in what sounded like relief and kissing him, so yeah. He was totally hallucinating, but damn, it was a good hallucination.

The tube down his throat was even gone, which was awesome even if there was a lingering scratchy ache in his throat.

"You idiot," Derek muttered against his mouth. "Don't you ever do anything that stupid again." And then his face was pressing into the skin of Stiles' neck — not really the most comfortable thing since even Stiles' overactive imagination couldn't conceive of a Derek who didn't use _all the hair gel_ , but whatever, this was Stiles' hallucination, and if his brain wanted to hallucinate getting stabbed in the face and throat by Derek's overly-groomed hair, who was Stiles to complain?

"Uh. Hah. Oh, umm."

Stiles rolled his head to the side to see that a furiously blushing Scott had joined his little dream ...along with Stiles' dad.

It was kinda funny; Stiles' dream!Derek moved _really_ fast.

"Your mom is so great, dude," Stiles said, waving his hands in his enthusiasm. Or he tried to. But his one hand was basically strapped down, tubes running from an IV pole right into his arm with all sorts of medical wires taped to his fingers. "She gave me _all_ the drugs. The good ones."

Scott's lips twitched and he moved forward, his hand coming up to hover over Stiles' before a concerned look crossed his features. "You sure, dude?" he asked. "Because you kinda look like roadkill right now."

"Roadkill, pffft. I can move bullets with mountain ash! Wait 'til I tell Deaton. Oh, hey, how is everyone else? Did everyone… make it?"

"Yeah, even Jackson. The hunters are all either dead—" Scott's eyes flickered toward something over Stiles' shoulder, and he turned to see Derek standing there, which… oh wow. 

Stiles' eyes flared wide as the implications of Derek _not being a dream_ began to thrum through him. And then his heart monitor began to beep even louder, which was only slightly embarrassing. 

Sure, the local werewolf population could hear _every_ time that happened, but at least _he_ wasn't ever subjected to it.

"The ones that were still breathing are all in cuffs," John said, taking over the story from Scott, who was staring in confusion at Stiles. 

Right, the heart going crazy thing probably seemed like weird timing to him.

"How on earth are you going to write _that_ one up?" Stiles asked, then felt a hand brush against his on the far side of him. 

Blip _blip_ blip-blip.

"Kidnapping, multiple accounts of physical assault on a minor, attempted murder, and grand theft auto to start," John said, his eyes landing on where Derek's fingers were actually beginning to wrap around Stiles' hand. "Tara and my new deputy, Parrish, got there just a handful of seconds behind the ambulance. I actually wouldn't be surprised if Tara doesn't relieve the rest of them of their heads."

Stiles thought about that, thought about how protective Tara had always been of him since his mom died and… yeah, okay. He could see that happening too.

"Don't let her get in trouble."

His dad's smile was a little too cold for comfort. "I have no idea what you mean. Until I enter them into the log, there were no hunters in my Preserve."

Finally feeling up to it, Stiles turned his head slowly until he was looking into Derek's face, and only had to clear his throat twice before he croaked out, "And the betas?"

"Our pack is safe, thanks to you," came the reply, Derek's eyes darting from John to Scott and then down to where his thumb was sweeping over the back of Stiles' knuckles. There was a hint of red right at the tips of his ears that was just… precious.

"What happened with Jackson?"

"Lydia talked to him," Scott said, bringing Stiles' focus back to him. "I don't know what she said, but he like… got bigger? Or something? And then Lydia accidentally broke the circle and we thought he was going to kill her, so Isaac and I sorta killed him before he could."

Stiles blinked, his mouth dropping open. "I thought you said he was okay!" 

Scott stepped back, shoulders going up around his ears at Stiles' accusatory tone. "He got better!"

"He got… better. From being killed?! How the _fuck_ —"

"Language," his dad muttered, moving to the foot of Stiles' bed just to pinch his big toe.

"Oh my god, Dad…" Stiles rolled his eyes. "I just found out Jackson Whittemore is apparently Jesus Christ; I think I get a pass on this one."

Scott pulled a face at that. "Nah, he like, went down. He was pretty dead, but then he shed his skin and stood up and went all beta shift. So I think it has something to do with him being a werewolf. Like he was able to heal the damage?"

"That makes sense," Derek murmured, and… okay.

Stiles really needed some clarification now that everything else was out of the way. Turning to look down at his hand, which was covered by Derek's, he blew out a breath and asked the question that had been bouncing around his head for far too long. "Dude, did you really just kiss me?"

And then he wanted to kick himself because _holy shit_ his dad was still in the room. Sending a panicked look down the bed at his dad, he turned his hand under Derek's to grab onto him — oww, moving hurt — and then shot a wide-eyed look at Scott.

"Relax, kid," John sighed, rolling his eyes even as he moved toward the door. "You've survived werewolves and kanimas and murderous old assholes, Stiles. I'm not going to go apeshit just because you're dating a T-birds reject. Come on, Scott. Let's go find my idiot son some jello."

Stiles frowned as he watched them leave, then turned back to look at Derek. " _Are_ we dating? I mean, a single 'I'm so glad you're alive' kiss in the heat of the moment is one thing, but I'm not going to pressure you into anything just because you were glad I didn't _die_."

Derek's throat worked a little, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally sighed and shrugged. "I don't have a great track record when it comes to romantic relationships," Derek sounded pained, his eyes focused on the wall behind Stiles' bed. "But you're stronger than you look, and… I _do_ trust you. I wouldn't let just _anyone_ be my emissary, spark or no spark." Then he jutted his lower lip out, pouting a little. "But I'm not a T-birds reject."

Stiles cracked up laughing, wincing and whining and pressing a hand to his chest where the bandage was thickest because yeah, the pain medicine was long gone now, owww. But gunshot wound to the chest or no, this was still the greatest day of his life. 

_Derek had kissed him._ They were _dating._

"Whatever you say, Kenickie."


	2. Art Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art by dyjanobrien for Striking Matches

**Author's Note:**

> We are on tumblr: [dyjanobrien](http://dyjanobrien.tumblr.com) and [eeyore9990](http://eeyore9990.tumblr.com).


End file.
